A Professional Opinion
by Just a Steel Magnolia
Summary: Spoilers to Season 2, Abandoned. Libby made a snap judgement and now she regrets it. SawyerLibby.


**_Title: A Professional Opinion_**

**_Author: Steel Magnolia_**

**_Rating: T (Adult language)_**

**_Pairing: Sawyer and Libby_**

**_Spoilers: Up to Season 2, "Abandoned."_**

**_Summary: Libby made a snap judgment and now she regrets it._**

**_Warnings: Strong language, after all it IS Sawyer_**

**_Status of fic: Completed_**

**_Author's note: _**This story was written prior to the airing of "The Other 48 Days" so there are a few small details here that differ from those provided in that episode. Many thanks to _mrstater_ for the beta!

_**DISCLAIMER:**_ All characters, plot, and locations are the property of executive producers J.J. Abrams, Damon Lindelof, Touchstone Television, et. al., and the folks at ABC. The following story is a work of fan fiction and in no way intended for profit or to infringe upon the rights of the creators and producers of "Lost."

**A Professional Opinion**

"I'm guessing not the redneck." As soon as she had spoken the words while she and Michael searched for fruit before the long journey, she regretted them. In the real world, far away from the nightmare that was this island, Libby was a better person than that. Her voice had been blunt, and in retrospect, it scared her. It had all started innocently enough. She wanted to apologize for the way that they had thrown Michael and his friends into the pit. Now, knowing who they were, and convinced that they were fellow survivors of Oceanic Flight 815, Libby felt guilty that they had treated them so harshly—even though Michael hadn't been offended by the comment. "Yeah, not the redneck," Michael had responded in the same flat, manner-of-fact tone that she had used.

Back home, she formed rapid opinions of people. Those, however, were professional, and necessary for assessing a patient's condition so she could decide on a plan of treatment. Not the kind of snap judgment that was clearly personal rather than professional, though. Since the Crash (she always thought of it as a capital C), she had started to change in ways she was not sure she liked. Now, as Sawyer lay unconscious and probably dying, she regretted those words even more.

His head was in her lap and she gently tried to coax some more water into his slightly parted lips. A long strand of his blonde hair, a few shades darker than her own, stuck to the dark stubble along the sharp angle of his jaw line. She reached down and pushed it away, her fingers lingering on his face, tracing the cut along his left cheekbone.

Glancing up, Libby noticed that Ana Lucia paced restlessly behind her, obviously anxious to leave the tall Southerner to whatever fate the jungle had for him. "We've gotta go before They show up," Ana Lucia muttered under her breath to no one in particular.

Libby swallowed, closing her eyes to the images that always came when she thought of Them and the events of the past forty-plus days. No, she would not allow herself to be overcome by fear and react against what she knew to be her better self. The group had to take Sawyer with them. Ana Lucia and Cindy nervously watched the area around them. Alternately, they looked up into the trees, and crouched down to try to peer through the thick grass. The other men were off looking for supplies to build a stretcher for the man who still laid prone where he had fallen. Everyone else had a job to do, but so did Libby. Fighting the need to run, she blocked out the sounds around her and concentrated on Sawyer. Maybe if they waited for him to rest, he'd regain consciousness. He was young and strong and, apart from the gaping, bloody hole in his shoulder, appeared to be in good health. With a little more water and some rest, maybe he'd come to, she thought, as she tried to coax more water into his mouth.

"Come on, Sawyer. You can do this. I know you can. Wake up."

A voice just over Libby's shoulder startled her. "We've got to go. We know what They're capable of doing," Ana Lucia hissed, her gaze dropping briefly to the thin blonde woman seated on the ground before resuming a scan of the surroundings. Libby looked up at her, noticing the gun was no longer in Ana's waistband and instead was held tightly in her hand.

Libby shook her head, and swallowed. "No, we can't just leave him here like that…for Them to find. It's just not right."

Ana Lucia gave a grunt of disapproval and resumed pacing the perimeter they had established around their spot in the tall grasses.

Libby smoothed Sawyer's hair and made small comforting noises to him. She had been able to encourage him earlier with a few words, a wide smile, and a pat or two on the leg. His eyes had flickered with hope, although she doubted that he was completely convinced. Sawyer certainly was nobody's fool, but just a couple kind words seemed to be enough to get him to push through what must be unbearable pain and follow the group as they made their way across the island.

Libby leaned closer and whispered, "Sawyer? Sawyer, listen, you're going to be okay. Michael and the others are going to carry you. In the meantime, you just rest and get better. We'll get you back to your camp and the doctor there can look at you. You'll be fine."

She pulled back the bloody and tattered fabric at his shoulder where the bullet had pierced his body. For the second time, she was able to get a good look at his injuries. The wound was inflamed and red with visible tissue death at the edges. His skin was hot to the touch and the swelling had increased since she had seen it before. Clearly, it was infected.

Even if she was not a real doctor, her basic knowledge of medicine thanks to a few undergraduate biology classes had taught her that much at least. She purposely had avoided telling Sawyer that she was a Ph.D., not a MD. That wasn't the kind of thing he needed to hear, and anyway, the fine details of her schooling weren't important at the moment. He needed to know that he wasn't going to die, and while she knew she was possibly lying, Libby had smiled and lied anyway.

Now, with his head in her lap and his breathing slightly faster but regular, she lied again. "You'll be fine, Sawyer. I promise. You'll be fine." Yes, Libby was a compulsive liar, when it was for a greater good.

Soon the men returned with the supplies. Michael and Jin expertly laid out the bamboo poles and began to lash them together with vines. Their hands moved rapidly, and their movements were fluid as only people who have worked side-by-side before could do.

She racked her brain, trying to remember every detail she could from her college biology classes or the medical journals she sometimes read. What could she do out her in the jungle for a man who clearly needed professional medical attention and soon? Like a flash, it dawned on her. She beamed and reached out to stop Eko and Bernard as they walked by her. "Did you see any young coconuts out in the jungle?"

"Yes, a few," the older man replied. "Why would you want young coconuts?"

She glanced down at the man who still lay sprawled awkwardly in the long grass. "He's dehydrated. We've got water, but what he really needs are electrolytes. If he were awake, we could give him some fruit. But…" She shrugged her shoulders, then continued, "Can you get as many as you can find?"

Bernard nodded. Turning back down the path they had worn through the long grasses, the two had made it about ten yards before Ana Lucia ran to stop them.

"Where are you going now," she spat, clearly agitated.

"He needs something to drink," Eko replied.

Ana Lucia shoved the gun in her waistband of her jeans. "He's had about a quart of our water already, and look what good it's done him." She glanced back at the lifeless body lying in the tall grass. "We're wasting valuable time and water on a man whose just going to die anyway."

In one fluid movement, Libby lifted Sawyer's head and rested it gently on the ground. Before anyone could speak, she was at Eko and Ana Lucia's side. "Don't talk like that. He might be able to hear you," she hissed, her voice barely above a whisper, yet demanding respect and compliance.

Ana Lucia furrowed her eyebrows. "What, you're telling me what to do now? Like I'm supposed to give a damn about hurting the redneck's feelings?"

"His name is Sawyer," Libby responded firmly, her eyes narrowing a bit.

Eko crossed his broad arms across his chest and said nothing as the two women stared at each other, clearly waiting for the other to back down, which didn't appear to be happening any time soon. "We'll be back in a moment," he assured Ana Lucia, as he turned to join Bernard and they made their way back into the jungle.

Libby returned to Sawyer's side and checked his pulse. It was still strong, but slightly elevated, and he was still unconscious. That made her nervous. The sheer physical stress of everything they had been through in the last few days alone was enough to drive anyone to exhaustion, and she doubted that he had been sleeping well. She hadn't, not since the Crash at least. Physical exhaustion. Sleep depravation. Pain. Dehydration. Infection. Mentally she ran though the list of possible causes for him to lose consciousness, any one of which alone could have been responsible, but combined, well, Libby didn't want to think about what that could mean.

In just a few minutes, Michael and Jin produced a makeshift stretcher with a woven bottom and sides. She steadied Sawyer's head as they raised him from the spot where he had fallen and placed him on the bamboo poles that the men had lashed together. Once they finished securing the vines, Jin pointed to still-unconscious man and said something in Korean.

"He's fine," Libby said reassuringly as the men hoisted the litter and the party again headed out with Ana Lucia in the lead.

Eko waited and fell into line beside Libby, decreasing his long strides to match hers. He reached into his bag and pulled out a few small coconuts. Passing them to her, he noticed the expression of concern on her face as she turned to thank him. He cocked his head toward the man now being carried behind them. "Tell me the truth," he whispered.

Libby nervously bit her lip. She hated what she was about to say, but it had to be said. Sawyer's condition was bad, really bad. If there was one person that needed to know the urgency of the situation and who could actually do something to plead Sawyer's case to Ana Lucia, it was Eko. She put her hand on Eko's muscular forearm and looked him directly in the eyes, lowering her voice so that she could barely be heard. "We need to get him to their doctor as soon as possible."

He nodded and resumed his position as the leader of the group with Ana Lucia just behind him.

Periodically, Libby glanced over her shoulder to check on Michael and Jin. Sawyer's lifeless body swayed back and forth with each step that the men took, his head coming dangerously close to rocks and fallen trees, but still he had not regained consciousness. Libby kept replaying their conversation in her mind. Why hadn't Sawyer told her how he had been shot? Why the smug answer? Well, that wasn't exactly a mystery. In the short time that she had known him, Libby had rarely seen him make a straight comment about anything. No, it was the way that Sawyer had dropped his gaze when Michael explained that it happened when they had taken Walt. His smug, carefree expression of just moments before was gone, replaced by a sense of guilt that struck her as odd for someone who claimed to care only about himself.

The expression on the tall man's face as they had opened the pit and slowly taken out Michael and Jin didn't lie. Sawyer was distrustful of his new captors and wasn't about to allow himself to play into their plans. Staying in the pit, however, had its own disadvantages as well. He was deeply worried about what would become of his friends, and to a lesser degree, about himself. During their search for fruit that day, Libby had told Michael, "I don't think I've ever seen somebody so scared in my life. And I know about scared." She had seen that look before, a deep-seated sense of abandonment mixed with a tinge of rage and defiance, all trying to mask an almost overwhelming feeling of fear. The children who were stripped by the State from the only homes they knew, even if they were terrible ones, and placed into foster care, or those whose parents had died had that same look.

Clutching the two bags slung across her body even closer to herself to keep their contents from making any additional noise, she jogged back to the two men carrying the stretcher through the thick jungle. "How is he?"

"He's still breathing," Michael responded, his face contorted as he struggled to hold the stretcher high enough to avoid hitting Sawyer's head on a fallen log that blocked their path.

Libby gave Michael a tense smile and fell back into line. Would they get him to the other camp in time? Would the doctor there be able to help him? Did they have antibiotics? How could anyone treat such an advanced infection without them? Even with antibiotics could they ensure that they could save his arm? If they couldn't, how would he survive such a dangerous operation in less than ideal conditions? Could a man like Sawyer, who clearly felt secure in only one thing-- his looks--deal with being handicapped?

No, she wouldn't think about these things. She had enough of death and destruction in the forty-odd days since the Crash to last a lifetime. Sawyer would live. Sawyer would be fine and he wouldn't lose his arm. They'd get him back to the larger camp and he'd get better. Before they all knew it, he'd be back to his old self, making snide comments and freely distributing nicknames. Even Libby, who admired Ana Lucia as much as she feared her, had to admit that Sawyer's nicknames for her were spot on. "Rambina," in particular, was priceless. Hadn't he called Jin "Chewy"? Libby recognized the obvious Star Wars reference, even if she had never seen more than five minutes of the movie before falling asleep. What was it with men her age and Star Wars anyway?

Truth be told, Libby didn't really know what Sawyer's old self was. If he had changed as much as she had since the Crash, back in the real world he could have been a writer. What several days at sea, and suffering from a bullet wound had done to his true personality? For some odd reason, despite his rather unsophisticated demeanor, she could easily envision him seated in a leather chair in a dark, book-lined study with a pipe clutched between his teeth and wearing a smoking jacket. Did they even make smoking jackets anymore, she wondered as they followed a small stream where the lack of undergrowth made travel faster. Either way, she had clearly made a snap judgment about Sawyer before, pegging him as an ignorant Southerner. He was definitely a bit coarser than most adults she knew were, but he was far more complex than she had given him credit for being. His flippant comments revealed a man who had a wide-range of knowledge, even though she had yet to determine its source, and he could definitely be pleasing when he wanted to be. It was in any interactions that involved Michael that Sawyer had also shown another side to himself, one that was vulnerable, scared, and wanted to be accepted. She could relate to that, both professionally and personally.

The group stopped, resting for a few minutes to prepare for a treacherous climb up the high embankment towering above them. She dropped to her knees beside the stretcher, reaching in through the tangle of woven vines to touch Sawyer's neck and check his pulse. His heart rate remained stable, but the fever had increased. She took a coconut from her bag and struck it against a large rock. Ana Lucia shot Libby a dirty look, but Libby deliberately ignored her. After several more attempts, the coconut opened with a satisfying crack. With her thumb she thrust Sawyer's chin down slightly, opening his lips just enough so that she could trickle the watery juice into his mouth. Satisfied that he had taken as much as she gave him, she poured the rest into an empty water container and made her way down to the edge of the creek.

Again reaching into the bag, she took out a shirt, and dipped it into the slightly warm water. Libby knelt by Sawyer and drew back his cuffs as she alternately held the wet rag against his inner wrists. It was a rather primitive attempt to lower his body temperature, but she had little other choice. She had to keep his fever from spiking too high or they'd lose him before night even fell. Opening his shirt, she took great care not to get the damp cloth near the open wound on his left shoulder and sponged his chest and stomach.

After Sawyer fell the first time, she immediately rushed to his side. Reaching for his shoulder, her fingers nervously fluttered over and around the mass of torn fabric surrounding his wound. "You wanna let me just take a look at your shoulder?" He had complied. "Yeah, it's bad." Libby recognized the fear and disappointment in his face, and instantly regretted her uncanny habit of speaking whatever came to mind, even if it was the absolutely wrong thing to say. Even though she had slipped, somehow though, she had kept her face from reflecting the true extent of what she really thought. "But it's not _real _bad," she had continued, her face and voice now far more relaxed. "Come on. You'll be okay. Let's go." And so, Sawyer got to his feet and pressed on. After that, Libby made sure to keep close to him, making sure that he kept up the pace, giving him a smile of encouragement, or making a witty, dry comment to something he said. When they stopped to rest, she offered him water.

During one of these brief lulls in their trek across the island, Sawyer looked at Libby as she held out a container of water. "What? You the Angel of Marye's Heights or somethin'?"

"No, he brought water to men that were dying. You're not going anywhere."

He glanced down at the gaping wound in his shoulder. "You wanna lay wager on that, Freud?" Sawyer took a long drink and handed the container back to her.

"Sure, I'll take those odds," she responded. "Anyway, I'm not Southern and you're not the enemy."

Sawyer grinned. Several strands of hair fell across his face and partly obscured his eyes. "Why don't you just kiss it and make it better then?"

Libby tipped the container up and drank. As she replaced the cap, she met his gaze. The corners of her mouth turned up in a slight smile and she had a mischievous look in her eyes. Swinging the bags over her shoulder as she prepared to resume walking, she finally responded. "If I think you're not going to make it, I'll be happy to oblige."

Now she looked at the helpless form lying on the stretcher. Sawyer seemed so awkwardly positioned in the small space, his knees bent and his arms tightly against his sides.

"Pity he isn't awake. He'd be loving every second of this." Michael stood above her.

She smiled. "Used to a lot of female attention, is he?"

"You've heard him. Even with a bullet hole in his shoulder he's still…well, Sawyer."

An unconscious smile turned up the corners of her mouth. Sawyer certainly was a charmer, even with a festering bullet wound. She had first witnessed that side of him in all its glory as he had flashed those deep dimples at her. How many women had fallen under his spell at less than "Maybe you oughta talk to my shoulder"? Even now, his face flush with fever, his lips cracked with dehydration, and in desperate need of a shave, shower, and clean clothes, she had to admit that he was handsome. How long had it been since she had been this close to a man? She stopped, her dirt-edged fingertips pausing at Sawyer's temple. Had Bill Clinton still been in office? For the life of her, she could not remember. Between her work with Child Protective Services and volunteering at the local homeless shelter, there was little time for a love life even if the opportunity had presented itself, which it hadn't.

Earlier, Eko had said that it would take a day or maybe two to reach the other camp. Now, with Michael and Jin carrying Sawyer their pace was considerably slowed. Who knew how long it would take now, or if Sawyer would even be alive when they got there. She had convinced Michael and Jin to get some rest when they stopped for the night. The two were exhausted and needed to sleep. She would keep an eye on Sawyer during the night while someone else stood guard duty. There was little Libby could do medically, but she felt better doing something. In the time she had been on the island, she had come to realize that much. It was when she felt helpless that the fear crept in, wrapping itself around her like a boa constrictor squeezing out every drop of emotion but the one that made her want to scream or flee or both.

With nightfall, the sky grew as black and ominous as the jungle around them. Libby settled into her spot by Sawyer's side and tipped the last of the coconut juice into his mouth. Once it was gone, she resumed sponging him down with lukewarm water, pressing a damp shirt against the inside of his wrist and at the nape of his neck where any change in temperature would most efficiently affect his blood circulation. Throughout the night, she sat by his side, sometimes placing his head in her lap and stroking his hair, whispering softly to him or humming. His fever continued to increase, despite her best efforts to keep it down, and as she watched his chest rise and fall ever more quickly, she also discovered that his heart rate had also risen. Clammy skin. Rapid breathing. Rapid pulse. Extended loss of consciousness. Libby went over the symptoms in her head, trying to decide whether it was just the dehydration or if Sawyer had started to go into shock. Silently she cursed that she had not gone the psychiatrist route where she would have had a least some more advanced medical training. Quickly, she shook her head to try to clear her thoughts and focus. No, she couldn't engage in a game of what-ifs right now, she had to deal with facts, and the fact was that Sawyer wasn't getting any better. Actually, he was getting worse.

Just before sunrise, she resigned herself that there was no more she could do for Sawyer. She stretched out the full length of her body on the ground next to him, and rested her palm briefly against his chest, still careful not to put pressure near his shoulder. Libby moved closer to him, trying to stave off the early morning chill that always seemed to sink into her very bones. Propping herself up on one elbow, she pushed the hair away from his face with gentle fingers, and whispered softly to him, "It's okay. You're not alone. I'm right here." She closed her eyes and pressed her lips against his forehead as a tear dripped down her chin and onto his cheek. "Sawyer, I'm so sorry."

**THE END**


End file.
